


The Pack Survives ...?

by waytooserious



Series: Arya Returns [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, other characters may be added but ... spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waytooserious/pseuds/waytooserious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against all the odds, Arya Stark has retaken Winterfell, and the North (with a little help from her friends). But was the campaign the easy part? Can she truly be the Lady of Winterfell? And what will she need to sacrifice on the way?</p><p>And is she really the Last Wolf?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lady Stark of Winterfell

The Lady of Winterfell had a challenging week. She’d given most of her bannermen leave to return to their holdfasts, which were in danger from raiding krakens and struggling through a bitter winter. She kept some of the builders and stonemasons they had brought with them, and supervised the rebuilding of Winterfell. She wanted every inch of it to be the same as it had been when her lord father ruled.

The men who wished to stay with her were appointed as household guards. One lord left her a maester, another a steward. She took her time, sizing them up, wondering which ones to trust. Trust did not come easily to her. There had only been two in the castle she could trust, and one of them had left this morning.

It had been a difficult goodbye. She hadn’t wanted him to go.

“I must,” he told her, his voice breaking. “The Night’s Watch needs me.”

Some words were still hard to say. “I need you.”

“You don’t,” he said with certainty. “You will be fine.”

She shook her head. She felt like she was being abandoned. So many people had left her over the years … and it had begun just like this, with Jon leaving for the Wall. It felt like it was happening all over again. But she wasn’t that little girl any more, and she spoke to herself sternly, and forced herself to be strong. She watched her brother’s horse until it disappeared over a distant hill, determined not to cry. 

Before he’d left, they’d had a secret meeting in the godswood. “Find some men you can trust,” he had told her. “And send them north, to look for Bran, and Rickon.”

“I will. But what about you? If they made it beyond the Wall …”

“I cannot command the men to find my brothers. But there are wildlings, too. Good men and women. They may be willing to go and search. They know the land.”

It felt inadequate, and she felt helpless, but it was all they could do. Finding men she could trust had been the hardest part. Eventually she’d settled on two brothers, and hoped she wasn’t sending them to their deaths.

Letters had to be sent out to the other great houses. The maester was willing to do this, but he was young, and she didn’t trust him. The same letter wouldn’t do for all houses. She felt out of her depth, and found herself wishing she’d paid more attention during her childhood lessons. When it all got to be too much, she went to the forge.

Needle, her sword, her most treasured possession, had been made here, by a big, cheerful man named Mikken. Mikken was long dead, and his forge had been left in ruins. Slowly, though it was being rebuilt: the tools cleaned and mended, the walls patched up, and the fires lit again. Arya Stark had never paid the place much attention as a child. Now, it was her favourite place to be.

Ruling the castle had left her little time for Gendry, but he hadn’t been idle. He couldn’t have finished all of his work if there’d been two of him. Buckets and pans and tools needed making for a castle that once more hummed with life, but they were both aware that the men needed swords and shields and armour, too. It was unlikely that the household would be left in peace for long. So if she wanted to talk to him, she had to come here, and offered help wherever she could.

Today, she perched on the edge of an unused anvil, and busied her hands screwing handles onto kettles. She told him of her worries. 

“I don’t want to bring any more trouble to these people,” she confessed to the only person she could really talk to. “But the realm needs to know there is a Stark in Winterfell again.”

“So just tell them,” he told her, between strikes of the hammer.

“But we need alliances, if we can get them. The letters to the Martells in Dorne, and maybe even the Tyrells in the Reach, might be well received. The Vale, the Riverlands and the Stormlands were our natural allies in the long summer, but we don’t even know for sure who rules, now. Lysa Arryn, my aunt, is dead, and my cousin Robert’s just a boy, and supposed to be sickly. The men say Littlefinger holds the power there now, and I don’t trust him. As for the Baratheons, Robert and Renly are dead, and no-one has heard from Stannis since Bolton’s Bastard said he died. We have no allies left.”

He stopped working and looked at her, waiting.

“Then there are the other letters,” she went on, her eyes narrowing. “To the Lannisters, the Freys, and the Greyjoys. They need to be told, and warned. If my men are right, the Lannisters have troubles enough of their own. But the Freys are too powerful in the Riverlands, and the bloody Greyjoys are even terrorising the coastline of the Reach!”

She stopped. She didn’t know what she was expecting from him. If it was puzzling to her, it must be absolutely baffling to him. He came to sit down beside her.

“I still say, just tell them. It’s winter. Everyone’s got their own problems.”

She sighed, and leaned against him. Perhaps he was right. Doing nothing wasn’t an option. News of Ramsay’s demise was bound to spread, and that too could draw unwanted attention. They sat in silence for a while.

“You should probably go,” he said eventually. “You’ve been here a while.”

She frowned. It was yet another reason why she didn’t want this life. She had her home back, but not her family. She had duties, responsibilities, and the Stark name to honour. It seemed she couldn’t have all that, and him as well.

There were moments when she regretted her choice. She didn’t even remember making it.

~~~~~~~~~~

The day after the ravens flew, bearing her messages across the Seven Kingdoms, Arya posted sentries surrounding the castle, watching for the first sign of danger. It seemed that there had been no need. Messages came from King’s Landing, requiring her to present herself and swear allegiance to the Crown. Another came from Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn, claiming that he had certain knowledge that anyone claiming to be Arya Stark was an impostor, but didn’t explain how he knew this. Slightly more encouraging were the notes from Highgarden and Sunspear, claiming to be pleased that the noble Stark family had been restored to their rightful place, expressing condolence at what had befallen her family, and hoping for cordial future relationships.

From the Twins came a venomous reply that made her insides boil with rage, though the maester who was with her when it arrived saw none of this on her face. Lord Walder condemned the Starks as traitors and outlaws, and threatened them with retribution.

No reply came from the Iron Islands.

~~~~~~~~~~

She became lost once more in the rebuilding and ruling, and frustratingly infrequent visits to the forge. She was there when the sentry from the west came racing in.  
She’d been on the verge of getting upset at the time; the pressures of rule taking their toll. “I sometimes feel like I’m nine years old again! Everything’s safe and comfortable and familiar, but I’m always getting something wrong. I’m always disappointing someone. I always feel like I’ve got to be someone else.”

“It’s all in your mind. They love you. You’re doing a good job.” Gendry pulled her close, but the hurried sound of approaching footsteps made them spring apart.

“Lady Stark! Riders are approaching!”

She pulled on her cloak and hurried out into the yard, the sentry at her heels. “How many?”

“Two, my lady.”

She stopped dead. Sometimes she struggled for patience with several of her men. 

“Two?”

He nodded.

She took a deep breath. “It’s unlikely that two men are much of a threat to us, wouldn’t you say?” 

He didn’t answer.  
“Isn’t it more likely that they are messengers? Or even just ordinary northerners, seeking our aid?”

Still no answer.

She sighed. “Take two guards with you, and go and meet them! And if they are travellers, be sure to offer them our hospitality! My father never turned away people in need.”

She sent a messenger to the kitchen to prepare food and wine, and tried to decide whether she should greet these men in the hall, or in her father’s solar. She settled on the hall, sat down uncomfortably in her father’s seat, and waited.

Eventually the sentry reappeared, and brought two figures before her, wrapped in torn and stained travelling cloaks. Her eyes went first to the larger one, but she didn’t recognise him. He looked to be about her father’s age, but unremarkable; average height, and dark hair turning grey. 

Her eyes passed to his smaller companion, and her heart stopped.

At first, she’d thought it was a girl, a little smaller than Arya herself, with long, wild hair and a fierce expression. Then something in the reddish-brown tone of the hair, and the blue of the blazing eyes made her realise.

Rickon.


	2. The Young Lord Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not the only Stark, and Winterfell doesn’t rightly belong to me. It belongs to Rickon. He’s my father’s last trueborn son. It all belongs to him.”

For the first time, the people of Winterfell – these new people, who hadn’t watched her grow up – heard Arya Stark laugh, long and loud. She rushed across the hall to her baby brother, tripping over her long cloak in her haste.

The laughter died on her lips. A sound like a growl came from his throat, and he backed away, dropping into what Arya immediately recognised as a fighting stance.

She stopped. “Rickon …” she began, haltingly. “It’s me. It’s Arya.”

His eyes narrowed like a cornered animal, and he fled. She nodded quickly at the guards, and knew they wouldn’t let him escape the yard. She wanted to chase after him herself, but …

She turned to the older man. “Who are you, and where did you find my brother?”

“Ser Davos Seaworth, my lady,” he answered respectfully. “Lord of the Rainwood, and Hand of King Stannis.”

She blinked, feeling lost once more. A king’s Hand, here? She had no idea what to do. She knew Stannis was missing, presumed dead. She assumed this Lord Seaworth also knew this. She realised he hadn’t answered her question, and struggled to remember the proper courtesies.

“The hospitality of Winterfell is yours, my lord,” she said quickly. “Please tell me how you came to find my brother.” She led him into the hall, took a seat at the table, and gestured for him to do the same.

“It’s rather a long story, Lady Stark,” he told her, but she was in no mood.

“Shorten it,” she told him.

“Very well. I was sent to White Harbour, as an emissary to Lord Manderly.”

Arya took a sharp breath. She’d been in White Harbour on her journey north. And the sons of Lord Manderly were among her sworn men. Why had they said nothing of this?

“Lord Manderly had heard tell of a surviving Stark child, taken to Skagos by a wildling woman. I was sent to find him, and to bring him to Lord Wyman. I have been on Skagos a long while, trying to gain the young lord’s trust. We were on our way back when your message reached us, quite by accident. I knew I must bring him here instead.”

She said nothing, so he went on.

“At the time the boy left home, he was with his brother. They separated, under the instructions of your father’s maester, in order to stay safe. The wildling woman took him to the island, and guarded him with her very life. I left her on the journey; she was concerned for her own safety, but take my word: should she ever turn up her, you owe her a debt. The boy loves her, and will recognize her immediately. ”

She let these words settle. Skagos? And the Manderlys knew? Why had they said nothing? It was something she would need to investigate. But this Seaworth seemed to be an honourable man. More questions danced through her mind, but her curiosity and excitement got the better of her. She stood abruptly.

“Lord Seaworth, my kitchen staff are preparing a meal for you. My steward will be with you shortly, and will give you anything you need. My maester, too. You have my gratitude.”

With these last words, she dashed outside.

~~~~~~~~~~

Rickon was hunched in a ball in the corner of the yard, glaring with hatred at the armed men blocking his escape. She approached him cautiously, but he responded like a cornered animal, flying at her savagely.

Instinctively she evaded the attack. Rickon, what has happened to you? You were always lively, but this is more like an animal than a boy. She’d thought several times during her own lost years that she had turned wild and savage, but it was nothing compared to her youngest brother. She remembered when Robb and Jon brought the direwolf pups home. Hers and Rickon’s wolves, Nymeria and Shaggydog, had always been the wildest. She wondered what had happened to Shaggydog. He’d been a tiny pup the last time she’d seen him.

Remembering, she suddenly realised how to get through to Rickon. She let him attack her, and then fought back. It was a brutal fight, and the guards rushed forward to aid her, but she shouted at them.

“No! Stay back!”

In truth, she relished it. Her clothes were ripped and dirty from rolling in the dirt. No doubt she would be covered in bruises tomorrow. Her people must be scandalised. It was glorious.

Eventually she got the better of him, as she’d known she would. Defeated, his head dropped, submitting to the stronger wolf.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a long day. Somewhere along the way Arya realised that in truth she was no longer the rightful ruler of Winterfell. That was Rickon, the only trueborn son of her father, known to be still living. However, it was equally true that he could barely be controlled, let alone expected to rule. He wouldn’t let anyone else near her, so she bathed him herself, and set to brushing the tangles out of his wild hair. She talked to him all the while, telling him stories he must have long ago forgotten, of their shared childhood. He’d still been a baby when she’d left for King’s Landing, but there was still much to remember. She talked about their Mother and Father, and when she mentioned Father, he made a sound like a sob. He remembered that.

She spoke of Robb and Sansa, and also of Jon. She left Bran until last, and when she said his name she watched Rickon’s face carefully. If anyone knew what had happened to Bran, it was Rickon. But his face gave nothing away.

She wasn’t sure he’d let her dress him, but he did. This role of caring for someone was unfamiliar to her – Sansa sometimes helped Mother with the little boys – but Arya had never been interested. She was as gentle as she knew how to be.

She barely recognised herself.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Rickon fell asleep, she lay beside him for a long time, watching him breathe, frightened to leave him in case he was gone when she came back. But she had other duties, and she forced herself to go, giving strict instructions to the guards.  
She asked the steward which rooms had been given to Lord Seaworth, and went to knock politely on his door. He opened it, and looked surprised to see her.

“My lady. I thought you’d be with your brother.”

“He’s asleep. I came to thank you, again, for bringing him to me. You have no idea how much it means to have my brother back.”

“I understand, my lady,” he replied with a kind smile. “You’ve lost so much.” His voice, though kind, held no pity or false sympathy. Arya decided she liked him.

“Do you have everything you need, my lord?”

He began to answer, but her mind was already racing with questions about the Manderlys. Then a voice from behind interrupted her thoughts.

“Lady Stark?”

She turned to see Gendry, a hundred questions in his eyes. He never came to her, always waiting until she had time to visit the forge. But today news of Rickon’s return must have reached him, and his concern for her had lured him into the castle. She gave him a quick, reassuring smile before turning back to her guest.

“Pardon me, my lord, this is our blacksmith and armorer, Gendry. Gendry, this is Lord Davos Seaworth, Hand to King Stannis.”

Gendry bowed his head respectfully, but Lord Seaworth looked like he’d seen a ghost. 

More questions.

Arya went into the hallway and spoke to Gendry. “Everything’s fine … no, it’s wonderful. I’ll come to you when I’m done here. I promise.” Eventually he nodded, and walked away.

She turned back to her guest, who had recovered himself. “A good smith is hard to find, my lady.”

That strange pride kicked in. “I will only have the best, my lord.”

“Not a northerner, is he?” She could feel him searching for information, but two could play that game. There had been a question over Gendry’s past ever since the gold cloaks first accosted them on the road. Now, she could get some answers.

“No. From King’s Landing, I believe,” she answered lightly.

“A long way from home, then.”

She nodded noncommittally, hoping he’d say more, but he seemed to sense he’d already said too much. He thanked her for her hospitality, and she bid him goodnight. It was only then that she realised how tired she was, and she wanted her bed … but she wanted to see Gendry more.

It was dark in the forge, lit only by one small candle, but it was light enough for him to see the pure joy in her face.

“Your brother’s back,” he said, handing her a blanket to wrap around herself.

She beamed; she couldn’t help herself. “My baby brother. He was only a baby, last time I saw him. He was always left out of our games, too little to play. It doesn’t matter, though. He’s alive, and he’s here.” She let out a small, high, childlike laugh.

“You’re not alone any more,” Gendry said softly.

She looked at him sharply. “That’s not what I meant. You … I haven’t been alone since Braavos. You know that. But I never thought I’d find any of them again. Having Jon back seemed too good to be true. And Bran … Bran might be out there somewhere.”

There was nothing to say. He reached out and placed one of his large hands over her small ones. Absently, she noticed his latest project sitting on the table: another bull’s head helm. She’d convinced him to make it.

“You know what else this means?” she asked suddenly, turning her face to his.  
He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m not the only Stark, and Winterfell doesn’t rightly belong to me. It belongs to Rickon. He’s my father’s last trueborn son. It all belongs to him.”

He looked wary “Arya …”

She laughed, louder this time. “No, don’t you see? This is wonderful! All of this, this burden, this need to be someone I’m not … it’s not forever. Oh, I’ll have to keep at it for a while. He’s too young, and far too wild. But one day … one day …”

She looked at him, and knew he understood. Then another thought came to her, and she changed tacks abruptly.

“Our visitor recognised you.”

The room suddenly seemed to grow colder. He pulled his hand away and stood up. Other people might have held their tongues, but not Arya.

“Do you know him?”

“No. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“He’s Stannis’ Hand, the Lord of the Rainwood.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Well, he seemed to know you.”

“He’s from King’s Landing, you can tell by his voice. Flea Bottom, by the sound of it. Maybe he saw me there. Maybe he bought armour from me.”

Arya was dubious. Important men didn’t remember the apprentices who sold them things. They generally didn’t come from Flea Bottom, either. “But …”

“Just leave it, Arya,” he cut her off. “You know what happens to people who pry into my life. I left all that behind a long time ago. I won’t bring those problems here. The sooner he leaves, the better.”


	3. Two Hidden Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s just you and me, now,” he said plaintively, when she was done.

It was a dry but windy day when Arya stood at the castle gate, a reluctant but compliant Rickon at her side, to bid Davos Seaworth farewell. She had provided him with four guards to see him safely to White Harbour, where he would bring news of Rickon to Lord Manderly, and seek for news of his king. He also carried messages from Arya to the Manderlys, demanding information – polite, but still demanding.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to delay his departure, but she knew it would be fruitless. Something about the plain-spoken man made him trust her in spite of herself, and while everyone reassured her she was rebuilding Winterfell marvellously, she knew that she needed counsel in her approaches to the other great houses of the realm.

There was another reason she wanted him to stay. The day before she’d been going to visit Gendry, taking some food that the cook kept trying to force on her, saying she was too thin. She knew he wasn’t eating as well as she was, getting only a servant’s winter rations, and that troubled her. But as she approached the forge, she heard another voice as well as Gendry’s, and stopped. Much as she hated it, she tried not to be seen spending too much time there.

“My mother just worked in a tavern,” Gendry was saying, in that stubborn voice she’d heard so many times.

“And your father, lad?” Arya froze, she’d been about to turn and leave, but she recognised her guest’s voice. She crept closer to the door and flattened herself against the wall, listening intently. Even though she knew her mother and father, and Sansa, and possibly even Jon would’ve scolded her for eavesdropping, she felt no shame. These skills had kept her alive, and no matter her title, she would always know that honour meant much less than men thought.

“Never knew him. Nobody ever mentioned him.”

“Who got you your apprenticeship?”

“Don’t know. I was only little, eight or nine.”

“That’s young, for a blacksmith.”

She could almost hear him shrug his shoulders. “I was always a big lad.”

There was a long silence, before Davos spoke. “Do you really not know, or do you just not want to know?”

Arya held her breath.

“I don’t know anything, _and_ I don’t want to!” It took a lot to make Gendry angry, but she could definitely hear that tone in his voice, now.

“All right, lad. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Arya risked creeping closer, and peering around the door. She saw Davos offer Gendry his hand, and after a moment he shook it. “That’s a good helm, that. Fine work. Is it for yourself?”

Gendry nodded.

“Very good. But if I were you, I’d make the horns a little longer. Maybe shape them like antlers.”

He turned to leave, and it took all of Arya’s skill to vanish in time.

~~~~~~~~~~

For once, she left the household staff to manage Rickon. She saddled her horse, and rode quickly out through the gates. She was gone before the guards even knew what was happening. She rode until she and the horse were both exhausted. Eventually, she stopped at the top of a hill, looking back at her home.

_Antlers, like a deer. A stag._ Everyone knew what the stag stood for; it had been the sigil of their king, for all of Arya’s life. The pieces of the puzzle came rushing at her. The gold cloaks’ hunt for Gendry, commanded by the queen. That whore at the Peach, who’d said she was a king’s daughter; Arya had thought her thick black hair meant nothing, because Gendry had the same look. How stupid, how blind that seemed now. And then, of course, there was Gendry’s skill in fighting, not with a sword, but with a hammer. King Robert’s chosen weapon.

Gendry was Robert’s bastard. A king’s son.

She realised she was cold. She hadn’t bothered to find real riding clothes, and up this high the wind was bitter. But she didn’t want to go back. What could she say to him? How did you tell someone that?

An unpleasant thought came to her. Should she even tell him? Was he better off not knowing?

A moment later, she realised something else. The boy king Tommen, and his sister Myrcella, were widely known to be the Kingslayer’s get, bastards born of incest. Robert, for all he’d done, had left no trueborn children. Those who believed the rumours said Stannis was the rightful king, though some would have preferred his late brother, Renly. Did being a bastard count if your father had no other children?

She shook her head. Jon had told her when they were small: bastards didn’t come after legitimate children – they came nowhere at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the days after Davos Seaworth departed, this knowledge troubled Arya, keeping her up at night. It occurred to her that Gendry might have puzzled out the clues for himself, but when she tried to raise the subject he just shut down, and this time she held her tongue.

She had plenty of other worries, chiefly Rickon. Every day seemed like a battle in an endless war, but she was sure she was winning. He began to speak to her, at first only to ask for things, usually his favourite foods. A few days later, and he began to speak of animals, out there in the wild. Then, one day, he asked about Robb.

And Arya was forced to tell her baby brother everything that had happened: how the Freys had murdered Robb and Mother, how the Lannisters had taken Sansa, and just a little of her own struggles to get home. She didn’t want to. She missed out details wherever she could, but she couldn’t bring herself to lie to him. When she told white lies, she got the feeling he knew.

“It’s just you and me, now,” he said plaintively, when she was done. A feeling of love and protectiveness that was quite foreign rushed over her, and she pulled him close. Surprisingly, he let her.

“Just us, and Jon, but he can’t come back from the Wall. We just have to do our best, now. I won’t leave you alone. I _promise_.” She never meant anything she’d said so strongly.

She comforted the boy, but inside she panicked. _Just us left,_ she thought. _Youngest son and youngest daughter. We were never groomed for this, never expected to hold these titles, fulfil these duties. How can we possibly do this right?_

She said none of it.

~~~~~~~~~~

That night he crept into her bed, curling up against her. Half of her was thrilled that he finally trusted her, but half of her was frightened. She felt more like his mother than his sister, and that just wasn’t _her_. She was losing herself, just as she feared … Arya was being taken over by the rebuilding of Winterfell, the caring for Rickon, and the ruling of the North.

The next day, however, it felt worth it. She and Rickon were breaking their fast together, when her little brother suddenly said, “Bran.”

Arya dropped her spoon. She hadn’t asked, hadn’t wanted to push him, to make him talk about those terrible days before he was ready. It had taken every drop of her self-control. She said nothing, but met his eyes and waited.

He shuffled in his chair. “Osha and Hodor took us to the crypts, at first.”

_The crypts. The missing swords …_

“And then we started going north. Meera and Jojen said we had to.”

She frowned. “Who are Meera and Jojen?”

“Frogeaters!” He broke into an unexpected grin. He saw Arya’s confused face, but didn’t seem able to give her a better answer. “They were Bran’s friends,” he said in the end.

“Where did they come from?” she asked.

“From a castle that moves,” Rickon answered dreamily. 

Something echoed in the back of Arya’s mind. “Greywater Watch? The Reeds of Greywater Watch?”

Rickon just shrugged. “They said we had to go north. And then …” His face darkened suddenly.

She forced herself not to push, just to wait, and watch.

“Theon’s friends killed Maester Luwin,” Rickon whispered. “He was dying when we found him.”

She’d known, of course, that the old maester must be dead, but she was sad that her little brothers had to see it.

“He said we should go north, like Osha said, but not together.” He stopped. “Not together,” he said again.

_Of course_ , she realised. It was cruel, to separate two young brothers who’d already suffered so much, but the maester was thinking of the survival of their house. She pushed her porridge bowl away, no longer hungry.

“I went with Osha. Bran went with Hodor. And Meera and Jojen. North of the Wall.” His story told, he stood up. “Can I go?”

She nodded, her mind reeling. She sat there alone, pondering all that he had said.

~~~~~~~~~~

So Bran wasn’t just with Hodor. He was with other friends. She vaguely recalled that Howland Reed of Greywater Watch had been a good friend of her father. Meera and Jojen must be his kin, possibly his children. She allowed herself to feel comforted by that.

She was also encouraged by Rickon’s progress. He was still wild – her mother’s struggle to turn her, Arya, into a lady suddenly looked like child’s play compared to the challenge of moulding Rickon into Lord Stark, ruler of Winterfell and warden of the north – but he was talking, and he trusted her. 

All of that was threatened when a great shout from the yard brought her running out one morning, to see the guards being menaced by an enormous black direwolf. 

_“Shaggy!”_ Rickon screeched, pelting across the yard to bury his face in the wolf’s fur. Arya took in the sight; what impressed her most was the sheer size of the wolf. Was this what Grey Wind had looked like, when the Freys butchered him? Was this what Nymeria now looked like, out there somewhere, in the wild? A lump formed in her throat.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I was just calming him down,” she confessed to Gendry that evening. “But that wolf’s completely savage, much worse than Nymeria ever was. This’ll send him wild all over again.”

But her worries were unfounded. If anything, Shaggydog’s return calmed Rickon further. He clearly felt safer with his wolf around, and she couldn’t blame him. And, to her relief, the black direwolf seemed to trust her automatically. Everyone else, Gendry included, was terrified of the beast, and perhaps with good reason. In recent days Rickon had become fiercely possessive of Arya, and her time. 

Shaggydog caused other problems. Every night, he somehow made his way to the top of a tower, different ones all the time. Once there, he would sit and howl for hours. No-one was pleased. In the end, despite the danger, Arya started taking Rickon out riding in the Wolfswood, Shaggydog at their heels. When they returned in the early hours, both Rickon and his wolf were tired, and slept for most of the day, giving the household some peace. Arya didn’t have that luxury, and she began to feel exhausted.

The news of the ironborn on the eastern shore came almost as a welcome relief. The loss of Winterfell so fresh in their memories, the men were ready to leave at an instant. But they looked lost, disorganised, without anyone to lead them. Arya’s fragile patience broke, and she saddled her horse. She judged that roughly half the men looked dubious about following a woman; the other half just looked relieved to have a leader. 

Gendry appeared at her side, ready to go with her, but she laid a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not this time,” she said, with a tone of finality.

He was in no mood to accept it. “You can’t mean for me to stay here … and wait …”

She knew that what she asked was unfair. She would have kicked and fought and refused to obey. She didn’t say what was utmost in her mind, that she couldn’t concentrate on the battle and the safety of her men if he was there, and in danger. For all the men she’d killed, and escapes she’d made, this would still be her first true battle, and her first time commanding men. Instead, she told him her second greatest worry.

“I need someone here, to look after Rickon, and guard Winterfell. I don’t trust anyone else.” She recognised the torn look on his face, knew it well herself, and galloped away before he had the chance to argue.

~~~~~~~~~~

As expected, the fight came easily to her. The ironborn were strong but slow, heavily armored, and no match for her speed and skill. Commanding other men was harder, but her victories won her respect no words or courtesies could ever have matched. She took no prisoners, and no foes escaped to tell the tale. For the third time in her life, she heard the sound of great men shouting her name.

She thought it would feel better than it did. When they were small, her brother Bran had wanted to be a knight, like the famous ones in the tales. Arya fought for the sheer joy of it, and because she didn’t know how to do anything else. Renown seemed empty and hollow.

When they returned to Winterfell, she was almost knocked from her horse by Rickon, overjoyed at her return. Despite her promises, he hadn’t believed her when she said she wouldn’t leave him. She hoped this proof would give him that faith.

Beyond the throng, her maester and her steward, and her wild little brother, stood Gendry, unable to join in the excitement at her return, or to share her triumph. It troubled her, but she resolved to make it up later. And she did, spending the whole night with him in the little room behind the forge.


	4. The Other Side of the Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This could divide the north._

It was the iciest of winter days when things began to change. Blizzards had raged through the northern skies for days and days, and when they settled the temperature plummeted, leaving ice covering every tree, and the residents of Winterfell huddling in rooms with fireplaces for as much of the day and night as they could spare. The castle had become like a ghost town, and nobody seemed to notice that their Lady spent almost all of her time in the forge, where the great fires ensured it was never cold.

Or so she had thought. “People know,” he told her, two days later.

She was almost beyond caring.

“They know about us,” he went on. “They keep coming by to check if you’re here. And the guards say things when you’re not around.”

She thought about this. “They don’t say it to my face, though, do they?”

He shook his head silently.

Unexpectedly, she laughed. “And they won’t. They’ll gossip like old women, but they don’t really care. They have a home again, and strong leaders. They won’t risk that.”

His face said he didn’t share her confidence, but it appeared she was right. She spent fewer and fewer nights in the castle, as Rickon became content to stay in his own bed, face buried in Shaggydog’s dark fur, and not a thing changed. 

~~~~~~~~~~

On the coldest day of all, when even the hot pools of the godswood seemed cool to the touch, new visitors arrived, this time from the south. The cold had made the sentries slow to respond, and the three horses – or, more accurately, one horse and two mules – were upon them before Arya could give orders to respond. Wary, she sent the steward to greet them. She stayed in her father’s solar, with Rickon, and the maester, and with Gendry, who had spent more time in the castle of late.

When the steward returned, her said nothing, and simply handed her a scroll. She took it, but before she opened it, she asked, “Where are they?”

“Being given a good meal in the hall, my lady,” he replied. “And waiting for you.”

She nodded tightly, then opened the scroll. As she read, she doubted she took even one breath. And she, who had become so adept at ruling her face, announced to her companions without speaking that something earth-shattering had happened.

Her first words were to tell Gendry to take Rickon to his room. The little boy went, grumbling and complaining, but he went none the less. Until Gendry returned, she said nothing, sitting tight-lipped. The maester wouldn’t push her for details, but Gendry knew her well.

“Come on, Arya, who is it?”

She held out the parchment in their general direction. “Sansa. It’s my sister. She’s here.”

The maester broke into a broad smile, no doubt thinking that Arya herself would be overjoyed. But Gendry had heard all the tales, over the years, and knew how difficult she would find this. The last time Arya had seen her sister, Sansa had been sitting with Joffrey and the queen, as the tyrant demanded their father’s head. Sometimes Arya thought that, immediately after that, Sansa had screamed and panicked, maybe even fainted, as horrified as Arya herself, and that the Lannisters must have tricked her. But at other times … in her mind, her sister smiled at her beloved Joffrey, and the queen she so admired, who she wanted to become. Arya didn’t know which memory to trust. It was possible both were false. Yoren hadn’t let her see much of anything, that day. 

So that she wouldn’t have to explain to the maester, she let him read Sansa’s note for himself. In a tight voice, she filled in the final pieces of the puzzle for Gendry.

“After Joffrey died, Littlefinger took her away from King’s Landing, and they went to the Eyrie. She’d been there all this time. Hiding. She thought I was dead. She … she still thinks Rickon’s dead.”

This last thought, more than any other, brought her to her feet. “I have to go to her.”  
The maester looked to agree completely, but Gendry looked wary. 

“Arya …”

The maester looked at him in disbelief. “She has not seen her beloved sister since their parents lived! Let her go!”

Arya looked back and forth between them, her hands fussing with her clothes, even her hair, in a way that only added to Gendry’s apprehension. 

She was resolved to go, but she read the conflict on his face perfectly.

~~~~~~~~~~

As she made her way down to the hall, she had time to mull over her thoughts.

_This could divide the north._

That was what she’d read in Gendry’s face, he who wasn’t always skilled with words but showed a keener understanding that she often gave him credit for. She and Sansa hadn’t parted as friends. If there was any conflict between them now …

Arya had proven herself. She had returned to them, killed Ramsay Bolton, and took back Winterfell. She had supervised its rebuilding, welcomed back Rickon, and begun to tame him. She had defended to castle against the ironborn, winning respect in battle. 

But …

But Sansa had always been beloved, always been adored for her beauty and charm. No one argued that Rickon could lead their people, not yet, but Sansa was the older sister, the next in line. Not Arya.

She ought to be relieved. Sansa would revel in all the tiresome tasks she hated. But she had worked so hard, and sacrificed so much, simply to bring them to this point. Could one spiteful argument with her sister, as different from her as the sun from the moon, be allowed to risk all that?

~~~~~~~~~~

A crowd had gathered outside the hall. Gendry and the maester had followed her here, and they joined the throng. As she entered the hall, she saw Sansa rise gracefully to her feet.

She was much more beautiful than Arya remembered. She’d been a pretty little girl back then; now, she was a woman more beautiful than even she could possibly have imagined. She was tall, so tall … how had that happened, while Arya stayed so tiny? Shades of Arya’s childhood feelings – of frustration, of inferiority, of the unfair comparison – tugged at the edge of her consciousness. She pushed them determinedly away.

For a second that lasted forever, the two sisters faced one another. A dead silence lay on the hall. Arya was dimly aware of something strange: she had expected all eyes to be on Sansa, the precious beauty returning home, to restore the pride and dignity of their house. Instead, everyone watched Arya, and she finally understood something.

It hadn’t all been for nothing. Everything she’d undertaken, everything she’d sacrificed … her people appreciated it, and greatly. She was beloved, now; she belonged. They were proud of _her_ , their fierce she-wolf. Sansa, for all her grace and beauty, was unknown. She was the outsider.

And Sansa seemed to see that, waiting for Arya to speak first. All the words she might have said died in her throat. What eventually came out surprised even herself with its mean-spiritedness.

“Lady Lannister.”

She heard a sharp intake of breath from the crowd. She felt uncertain, but she knew she looked strong, and fierce, and confident.

She saw no hurt in her sister’s eyes. It was something else. Was it … was it amusement?

“Lady Bolton,” Sansa Stark returned, with a small curtsey.

Dead silence reigned once more. Then it broke like a spring rainstorm; Arya burst into laughter, ran across the room, and pulled her sister close.

~~~~~~~~~~

Apart from the time it took to settle Rickon, Arya scarcely left Sansa’s quarters over the following days. Unlike Arya, Sansa had never expressed any qualms over returning to her childhood room; the door to Arya’s own was still untouched. 

The moment they were alone, Sansa said “I want to see Rickon.”

Arya sighed. It was tempting, in a way, to just turn over the taming of her wild, lost little brother to her big sister, who would doubtless have been glad of the chance. But Rickon was so unpredictable. She tried to judge in her mind whether meeting Sansa would further reassure Rickon that there were people in the world who would love him and protect him, or whether he would become angry about more change in his life, and resentful of another competitor for his sister’s time and affection

In the end, she nodded “All right. But I’ll talk to him first. He doesn’t do well with surprises.”

Sansa accepted that as gracefully as expected, though Arya didn’t remember her ever acquiescing quite so mildly to a single one of her younger sister’s ideas. Then Sansa, full of charm, sat down and pulled gently on Arya’s hand, persuading her to do the same. She found herself unable to resist.

The first question was the inevitable one. “Where were you, all this time?”

Arya looked away. Only Gendry and Jon knew the whole truth of her life these last few years, and even they had been spared the worst details. Gendry had shared so much of that journey with her, and Jon … Jon had always known her so well. She and Sansa had never been close. She’d been surprised herself, to find how happy she had been to see her sister. Arya always thought Sansa tried to make her life, her childhood, as unpleasant as possible … and Arya had worked her hardest to do the same. The small distance between their chairs seemed grow in that 

It was incredible, how ridiculous it all seemed now. Name-calling and ruined dresses … childhood spitefulness, all of it. The deeds of little girls who’d never known pain or loss or fear. Some of it had been worse, the things that happened after they left for King’s Landing, but even they couldn’t make her angry any more. 

Despite everything, the two girls had travelled to King’s Landing together, and seen how terrible things had been. Of all the Stark children, they alone had been there that day, outside the Great Sept of Baelor, when their father had been taken from them. 

And they were _sisters_. The gap between the chairs seemed to close again.

“A recruiter from the Night’s Watch cut off my hair and smuggled me out of the city, along with the orphans and thieves … and worse.”

Sansa covered her mouth with her hand … delicately, Arya noticed. Gracefully. Some things never changed. Part of Arya wanted to stop and reassure her sister, that while travelling with Yoren had been dangerous, she’d really felt far less stifled than she had in the finery of King’s Landing. But once she had started the tale, she found she couldn’t stop.

“The crow, Yoren … he saved my life. Actually, he died saving my life. We were attacked on the road, and only a few of us got away.” She didn’t say who had attacked, or why. Talking about that would’ve meant mentioning the black-haired apprentice smith who’d been the true target, and she couldn’t, right now. _My mother might actually be proud_ , she thought ironically, _seeing me learning to mind my tongue, and not say everything that comes into my head_. Or course, after Harrenhal, Braavos, and several months as Lady of Winterfell, keeping her secrets was second nature … but it had been a lesson learned the hardest way.

“But in the end we were captured and taken to Harrenhal,” and with that, she lifted her eyes to meet her sister’s, and finally let some of the pain of those memories show in her face, feeling it for the first time since her escape. “Sansa, it was horrible, like the worst of the seven hells. Men were beaten and tortured and killed, every day. And not just men, either. Women, too, and sometimes children.” She swallowed hard. “The Mountain had the command.”

Sansa’s hands fell to her lap, and the colour drained from her face. “The Mountain That Rides? Ser Gregor Clegane? You were his captive?”

She shook her head. “No. I was a servant. Nobody there knew who I really was. They knew I was a girl, by then, but that was all.”

Sansa nodded. “He’s dead, you know. The Mountain That Rides was mortally wounded by Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, and died of poisoning days later.”

Arya took this in silently; she hadn’t known. _Another name I can stop saying,_ she realised. In truth, there were few left, though probably many more that she could add. She looked to Sansa for more information, but her sister wouldn’t be drawn. “A tale for another time,” she said, and let Arya continue.

“Eventually I escaped from Harrenhal,” she went on, enjoying the look of surprise on her sister’s face, that little Arya could escape from the cursed castle and all the Lannister guardsmen. _One day_ , she thought, _I’ll tell her of Jaqen H’ghar, and how I became the ghost in Harrenhal_. “I knew I was in the Riverlands, so I tried to make my way to Riverrun, where everyone said Mother was staying, and Robb.”

A shared look of pain passed between the sisters. “You made the journey yourself?” Sansa asked. “Out there, all alone?”

Arya paused. “Not entirely alone. I had two friends, who escaped with me. And then we met the Brotherhood Without Banners, the outlaws serving Beric Dondarrion.”

Sansa’s eyebrows shot up. “Lord Beric? I heard that he’d become an outlaw, and was raiding villages in the Riverlands. It sounded so unlikely.”

“Yes and no,” Arya told her. “He was truly an outlaw, but only from the Lannisters’ laws. He never raided villages. He helped them, him and his men, and tried to protect them from the war. Harwin was with them, you know.”

There was a flicker of recognition in Sansa’s eyes, but she still looked confused. Arya rolled her eyes. “Harwin, Hullen’s son. He helped teach us to ride.” Of course Sansa wouldn’t remember; she had always hated riding. “I was angry with him for leaving Robb’s cause … but I think now that he was only trying to do the right thing.”

Sansa nodded, surprising Arya slightly.

“The Brotherhood said they would take me to Riverrun,” she went on. “And we were on our way there, but then the Hound …”

She stopped abruptly; Sansa had made a slight choking sound, and Arya gave her a curious look.

“You met the Hound?”

Arya grimaced. “He said he’d fled King’s Landing after the Battle of the Blackwater, when Stannis tried to take the city.”

Sansa nodded, but said nothing.

“The Brotherhood put him on trial for his crimes, but he demanded trial by battle, and he won.”

“Of course he did,” Sansa said softly.

“I tried to tell them how he killed Mycah, but they wouldn’t listen, and they let him go. But he wanted my ransom, so he kidnapped me.”

“He _kidnapped_ you?”

“Yes,” she said simply, remembering those awful days. At the time, she’d thought she almost safe, almost _there_ , so close to being reunited with her mother and brother. She almost didn’t want to tell Sansa the rest of the story, but it was too late to turn back. 

Impulsively, she reached out and took her sister’s hand. Sansa gave her a look of shock so pure that Arya almost pulled her hand back. Almost.

“When we found out Mother and Robb were at the Twins, he said he’d take me there. When we got there, there were tents and hundreds of people, there for the wedding.”

Sansa closed her eyes in pain, and Arya squeezed her hand as gently as she could.

“When the … when the attack began, I ran away and tried to get into the castle. The Hound stopped me, and took me away.” She paused. “If he hadn’t, I’d be dead too.”

“You were there?” Sansa whispered. “When Mother … and Robb …?”

“I didn’t … I didn’t _see_ anything. I used to think if he’d let me go, I could’ve stopped it, could’ve saved them. It was foolish.” Then she felt her own hand being squeezed.

“I think it was brave,” Sansa said, and Arya knew this was the biggest compliment Sansa knew how to give her.

“We ended up at Saltpans, and there was a fight. The Hound was wounded, probably dying. He asked me to end it, but I wouldn’t.” She looked away, not quite ashamed, but definitely uncomfortable. “I left him there to die.”

“He’s dead?” Sansa asked in a small voice, which Arya found quite strange.

“Yes. I mean, he must be. He was badly wounded. There was nothing left for me here, so I got on a ship and went to Braavos.”

“Braavos? What was there for you in Braavos?”

Arya sighed, remembering how lost she’d felt. “The House of Black and White. The Faceless Men.”

“The _assassins_?”

“Yes. I lived there for almost two years, learning their art. Then I had to come back to Westeros, heard that Jon was injured, and couldn’t go back. I went straight to the Wall, to Jon. The rest you know already.”

Sansa sat back silently, taking all of this in. “That’s quite a tale, Arya Stark,” she smiled, pointedly. “Almost worthy of a song.”

Arya laughed in spite of herself. _How can we laugh? How can we sit here and tease each other, and still find it funny?_ It seemed ridiculous; there was nothing amusing in her tale, and yet, with Sansa sitting beside her, it didn’t feel wrong to smile or laugh. She felt something like true hope, for the very first time.

~~~~~~~~~~

One of the kitchen women brought them wine, and when she’d gone Arya took a long drink and folded her arms. “So you’ve heard my tale. What of yours?”

Sansa sighed. “You already know the beginning. After … after Father was killed, and you were gone … I was no longer a guest in the Red Keep. I was a hostage.” She stopped, seeming to be struggling to find the words, and Arya recognised the feeling well. “Joffrey was a monster. You were right all along.”

“Of course I was,” Arya said lightly. “I usually am.” It wasn’t really the time for a joke, but the look of pure agony in Sansa’s face was paining her, and she wanted to take it away.

“He was furious that Robb was winning the war, that Stannis and Renly were in rebellion, that the Iron Islands had risen up. He was always angry, and when he was angry he was cruel.” As she spoke, Sansa’s hands moved absently, one to her side, the other to her lower lip.

“When it pleased him, he would have the knights of the Kingsguard beat me,” she said, her voice hollow.

“Knights?” Arya cried, horrified. “Grown men, in full mail? You were just a little girl!” She’d long grown used to keeping her feelings under control, but there was a fury rising in her chest, burning to get out. She shouldn’t have been surprised – the gods knew she’d seen worse things done – but this was Arya’s _sister_. 

And it was more than that; after this short time together, Arya could see that no matter what Sansa had seen and suffered, she had remained _good_ , had kept her sweet nature. Arya had seen dark and twisted things, and lived among them, but Sansa was still bright and pure, one of the few good things left in the world. Once, long ago, Arya might’ve been angry with her sister, might even have wanted to hurt her, but now she would kill anyone tried.

“The Hound was the only one who was ever kind,” Sansa said quietly, and while this sounded unlikely to Arya, it at least explained why Sansa was sad about his death.

“Things came to a head with the Battle of the Blackwater,” Sansa went on. “We were all terrified for our lives, if the city should fall. But it didn’t, and then Lord Tywin arrived, and all the Tyrells, and for a while things weren’t so bad.”

Arya’s mind burned with questions, but she forced herself to remain quiet, and let her sister talk.

“The Tyrells were kind to me, at least in the beginning. It was nice to have pleasant company. It was nice to not feel _hated_.”

Arya blinked. Sansa, hated? 

“The Queen of Thorns – Lord Tyrell’s mother – tried to arrange a marriage for me, to her oldest grandson, Willas. I wanted to go to Highgarden so much.”

Arya had never heard of him, and her stomach turned, as usual, at the very idea of being given to a stranger like that. But at the same time, she could see why Sansa had wanted it. And escape must have sounded wonderful. And, she knew, it had been snatched away.

“But, of course, the Lannisters found out, and put a stop to it. They forced me to marry Tyrion.”

This had all made Arya most curious. It had sounded cruel beyond belief, and she couldn’t understand it. She leaned forward. “Sansa, how?” The _Imp?_ ”

To her great surprise, Sansa spoke sharply, something she had rarely done even when she had despised Arya. “Don’t call him that!”

Arya’s eyes widened.

Sansa sighed. “I didn’t want to marry him, but they gave me no choice. And he’s … he’s different from how you imagine, Arya.”

“I heard he was the worst of all the Lannisters,” Arya said bluntly.

“It’s not true,” Sansa said, gently. “From the moment he arrived in King’s Landing, he was kind to me. He tried to control Joffrey’s crueltly. And, while no-one seems to remember this, it was his strategy that saved the city from Stannis.” She stopped, and smiled. “He never said so, but he seemed to hate the Lannisters as much as I did.”

Arya considered this. “That’s all well and good, but _marriage?_ ”

“I was frightened of him,” Sansa confessed. “But he always tried to be kind. He never …” she trailed off, her face colouring slightly.

“Never what?” Arya prompted.

“He never insisted the marriage be consummated,” Sansa said formally. “He never touched me.”

Arya blinked in disbelief. “Never?” It seemed improbable to the point of impossibility.

“Never,” Sansa confirmed. “He saw how young and frightened I was. How many great and noble knights would have given me the same?”

_None_ , Arya thought. “So you’re … you’re still …?”

“A maid,” Sansa confirmed. “And happy to be.”

In the depths of her eyes, Arya could see the inevitable question forming, so she hastily changed the subject. “What about Joffrey?”

“Joffrey’s marriage to Margaery Tyrell was arranged quickly; a huge, extravagant affair. During the feast, Joffrey choked on his wine, and no-one could save him. Tyrion disappeared soon after.”

“But what about you?”

“Lord Baelish removed me from the city?”

“Littlefinger?”

“Yes. He took me to the Fingers, where he was born, and from there to the Eyrie. Lady Lysa knew the truth about me, but to everyone else I was Alayne Stone, his natural daughter.”

“You were a _bastard?_ ” Arya almost wanted to hoot with laughter at the very idea.

“It seemed the best way to keep the secret,” Sansa explained. “There were times when I was trying so hard to be Alayne, I almost forgot about Sansa. I nearly lost the _true_ me.”

Arya let out a small laugh; it was a familiar sensation. How hard had she tried, in Braavos, to be Cat of the Canals, to be Beth, to be No One? It was so easy to get lost.

“Why are you laughing?” Sansa asked, confused.

She smiled. “Because I understand. And because I never guessed how much we had in common.”

Sansa smiled slightly, but still didn’t seem to truly understand. “When the worst of winter struck, we came down from the Eyrie into the Vale. That’s where I got your message. I found one or two guards I could trust, and we rode straight here.”

She sat back, and smiled at Arya. A pleasant silence settled for a few moments. “I think,” Arya said, eventually, “that it’s a great mercy I wasn’t there to share your fate.” She meant it; she doubted she could have survived Sansa’s story.

Sansa laughed. “I think it’s an equally great mercy I wasn’t given yours!”

“I don’t know, though,” Arya said, thoughtfully. “At least we would’ve had each other.”


	5. A Glimpse of Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa sighed. “You are the danger, Arya. In Winterfell your friend is safe from the war, but his love for you is becoming known.”

Sansa’s reunion with Rickon went more smoothly than Arya’s had, but perhaps that was because Arya was there to smooth the way. She expected him to resist Sansa’s attempts to tidy him and civilise him, but after a few days she could tell he was enjoying the attention. She wondered, sometimes, if Rickon ever saw his mother in Sansa’s beautiful face. She still saw a lot of her little brother – she had begun to teach him swordplay, though only with blunt sticks, as she didn’t yet trust him with sharp points – but it was nice to have a little more time to herself.

As they shared their brother, they also shared the duties of the castle. Arya still directed the rebuilding of the castle, its defences, and its men-at-arms. But Sansa was happy to take over the day-to-day running of the place, directing the servants, and the bulk of the diplomacy with other houses – though in this she always consulted with Arya, and it was wonderful to have someone to share the burden.

“I wish Mother and Father could see us,” Sansa said wistfully, as they read and answered letters by candlelight one evening. “Working together like this, happily, for the good of our house.”

“They’d never believe it,” Arya declared, but silently she shared her sister’s wish.

All of this gave her even more free time, which she cheerfully spent in the forge with Gendry, or on occasion out in the Wolfswood together. She’d hardly seen him in the days after Sansa’s arrival.

“You look happy,” he commented in his easy way, as they sat to rest beside a stream.

She was startled. It occurred to her that he had never seen her truly happy. She’d been hurt so badly in their early days together, and she’d always bear those scars. But only now, back in her childhood home, with Sansa and Rickon, and with _him_ , had she allowed herself to feel safe. Something like happiness had followed soon after.

“I am happy,” she allowed. “Winterfell is starting to look like home again. Rickon is safe, and settling down. Sansa is here, and she’s safe, and she’s helping me with everything, so we have time for days like these.” She rested against his side. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately. “We’re safe, and we’re together, and we’re out of the war. What more could I ask for?”

She nodded, accepting that … but she, who’d been taught to look and listen so carefully, thought she noticed something slightly _off_ in his tone. She thought about asking him, and then decided it was too nice a winter’s day to bring up problems. Instead, she went for distraction, pushing him down on his back, and rolling on top of him.

He didn’t object.

~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, she sat in the great hall, dining with Sansa and Rickon. Arya had long since given up trying to make Rickon use a knife to cut his food. It had seemed like the least of their problems: her priorities had been getting him to talk, and to stop attacking people. It hadn’t seemed important if he ate with his hands. But Sansa was quietly insistant, and appeared to be making some headway.

When they had finished eating, the servants cleared away their dishes, brought out wine, and took Rickon away to bed. The sisters spoke lightly, of the weather and the ongoing rebuilding, before Sansa got a determined look on her face that made Arya nervous. But when Sansa spoke, her tone was light and chatty.

“I was admiring some of the new gates and railings around the castle earlier today. Exquisite work. In this day and age, we are fortunate to have such a talented smith at our disposal.”

Arya’s immediate reaction was to control her face, to stop her sister seeing the inner panic she’d just caused. Of course Sansa would raise the subject this way; she wouldn’t confront Arya outright. But this wasn’t just ladylike courtesy, the kind Lady Catelyn had taught her eldest daughter. Sansa had dealt with all the North’s diplomacy since her return, and it was clear to Arya that she was _subtle_ , more subtle than once would have seemed possible. 

“Mmm,” Arya agreed, noncommittally, her quick mind trying to judge how much to tell her sister. She decided that the truth, or most of it, would be best. “He was another Night’s Watch recruit, smuggled out of the city at the same time as me.”

Sansa’s eyebrows raised. “He’s been with you all this time?”

Arya shook her head. “No. He wasn’t in Braavos with me. We met up again on our return.”

She expected more questions, but instead Sansa sat quietly, watching and listening. Arya wasn’t fooled: she knew Sansa was trying to lure her into revealing more details. She refused to let the silence make her uncomfortable, and instead used the time to consider her next move.

In the end, she realised that feigning indifference to Gendry was going to be impossible, but was loathe to let her sister know the truth. Sansa was different now, kinder and more understanding, as well as much more loving towards her little sister, but she was still _Sansa_. It seemed probable that she would be scandalised at Arya and Gendry’s relationship, and might even try to put an end to it. Arya realised suddenly that this wasn’t what frightened her – she didn’t care for the opinions of others, that hadn’t changed, and she knew nothing would come between her and Gendry any more – but she didn’t want her newfound relationship with sister to be damaged.

“He and another boy from King’s Landing were with me when I escaped from Harrenhal, and met Lord Beric’s band. Gendry joined them – Beric knighted him – and then the Hound took me away. When I returned from Braavos, my sword was damaged, so I took it to him to fix. Then when I heard Jon was wounded, he insisted on coming with me to the Wall.”

She stopped; Sansa was still giving her that expectant look.

Suddenly she felt defensive. “Giving him a place in Winterfell seemed like the least I could do.”

Sansa smiled warmly. “I’m glad you weren’t alone all that time. You had something I never had … a friend I could truly trust.”

Arya felt bad; she’d been suspicious of Sansa, distrustful even, but it seemed she had no hidden agenda, just simple curiosity.

“Does he plan to stay?” Sansa asked. “It seems a man of his talents could earn much more wealth and prestige somewhere less isolated.”

“It’s safer here,” Arya said wary once more. “After Harrenhal, and the war in the Riverlands, safety is worth more than gold.”

“Indeed,” Sansa agreed. “Though … even Winterfell may have hidden dangers, in unlikely places.”

“Winterfell?” Arya echoed, in an innocent, artless tone.

“Oh, yes,” Sansa agreed. “You have seen some ghastly things, Arya, but it was my place to learn that the brightest, the safest, the most beautiful things can be the most deadly. I think your friend would understand.”

Arya’s face darkened. “Speak plainly,” she told her sister sharply. “Your skills in the game aren’t needed here.”

Sansa sighed. “You are the danger, Arya. In Winterfell your friend is safe from the war, but his love for you is becoming known.”

Arya blinked; nothing in all her training prepared her for this.

With a kind smile, Sansa took her sister’s hand. “Of course you didn’t know. You never cared for songs of courtship, or of devotion. For all you’ve been through, you’re still very young, and much consumed with simply staying alive.”

Something inside of Arya snapped, with that, and while she wanted no troubles in her fragile new family – Sansa, Rickon, and Jon at the Wall – she suddenly realised that Gendry was family, as well.

“I’m not as young and innocent as you think, dear sister!” she snapped. “Of course I know he loves me. I may not know the songs, but I understand devotion.”

Sansa nodded. “But still, he’s a blacksmith, and bastard-born, I’ve been told.”

Anger flared. “He’s so much more than that! He’s good, and noble, and gentle. He’s honest and loyal, and the best man I’ve met since leaving Winterfell!” Her cheeks burned as she said – shouted – the words, but she didn’t care. She took a deep breath, calming herself down, expecting Sansa to be upset or annoyed with her.

Instead, a dainty little laugh filled the air, like tiny crystals rattling together, and Arya knew she’d been duped, and Sansa’s subtlety was greater than even she knew. It wasn’t this defeat, however, that made her slump in her chair, scowl, and fold her arms defensively across her chest.

“What are you going to do?”

Sansa stopped laughing, but she was still smiling. “Do? I planned to throw a little feast tomorrow, something small and intimate. Just me, and my only sister, and the man who was somehow able to catch her heart.”

Arya rolled her eyes at this turn of phrase – it wasn’t unexpected; this was still Sansa, after all – but the feeling of relief was all she was aware of. No-one was going to try to interfere in her life, to separate them, to send Gendry away, or to marry her off. When her pulse returned to normal, she managed a smile at her sister.

“You’re surprised,” Sansa commented, astutely.

“You’re not the sister I knew,” Arya said simply.

“There are no true knights,” Sansa said quietly. “Birth and fine armour doesn’t make a good man. I had to learn that the hard way. But you … you are not the sister I remember either. I should tease you mercilessly, for all the times you called my ideas of love stupid.”

_They were_ , Arya wanted to say. _Your grand dreams are nothing like what we have. Our song has been one of death and pain, and harsh reality._ But at the same time, she remembered herself at nine, and said nothing. She drained her cup, and stood to leave.

“One more thing,” Sansa called after her, forcing Arya to turn.

“Despite my marriage, and Joffrey’s cruel attentions,” Sansa said, her smile turning almost to a grin, “I remain an innocent maid. What of you?”

At last Arya was back on familiar ground. At least, it had been familiar, a long time ago. Tormenting Sansa had been one of the joys of her childhood. “Not for a long time,” she said wickedly. “I gave my virtue to an outlaw, and bastard-born as well. I am forever ruined; I fear no man of honour will ever have me.”

Though still smiling, Sansa couldn’t hide her shock, but with this victory, Arya turned and walked away, smiling broadly. She felt good, but as she walked to her chambers, her mind was racing.

There’s something else, she wanted to tell her sister. I found out something about him. Does he remind you of anyone? His face is familiar to anyone who knew Robert in his youth. He’s Robert’s bastard son. The gold cloaks that pursued us from King’s Landing weren’t after me, they were chasing him. Before, she never would have trusted her sister to keep the secret, but now she knew she could. But she didn’t tell her. It would be unfair to share it with Sansa before she shared it with him.

~~~~~~~~~~

The dinner the following night was excruciating. Gendry had faced it as bravely as any man could. Arya could see that he was charmed by her sister – who wouldn’t be? – and Sansa had been kind and courteous in return. It was Arya who wanted to die. She wished she could eat somewhere else, with Rickon, conversing in grunts and giggles, and leave the pair of them to it.

In the end, she realised that she was uncomfortable because of the way everyone avoided talking about the future. She just _knew_ Sansa wanted to ask. She herself couldn’t answer, so how could Gendry? Could they go on like this forever, a Lady of Winterfell sharing stolen nights with the bastard blacksmith? It hardly seemed likely.

Eventually, she could stand it no longer. “So what happens next?” She faced her sister. “What will you do when the young lords of the Seven Kingdoms come asking for my hand?”

Sansa laid down her knife. “They already have, Arya. “

“You didn’t tell me!”

“I saw no need. I refused them, on your behalf, as courteously as I could.”

“What did you tell them?” Arya asked, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“I told them you were already promised,” she smiled, glancing at Gendry. Arya’s jaw dropped in disbelief, and she saw the expression mirrored on his face.

“For now, nothing can be done,” Sansa explained. “One day, when everything is calm, when spring comes again, and when Rickon can truly rule the North, there might be an answer. For now, simply be discreet – and be careful.”

She rose from the table, and Gendry jumped to his feet. Sansa offered him her hand, and he kissed it politely. 

“Gendry, is there any threat I could make about hurting my little sister that my half-brother at the Wall didn’t already make?”

He shook his head. “Shouldn’t think so, my lady,” he replied, and Arya noticed the separation of the words. _My lady, not m’lady_. It was just as well; the latter would always sound like mockery to her. Good-natured, friendly mockery, but mockery all the same. “The Lord Commander was persuasive.”

“Good,” Sansa smiled. “Then I have a command of my own.”

Arya sat up straighter in her chair, watching the two of them, holding her breath.

“Make her _happy_ ,” Sansa said earnestly. “I know she doesn’t tell me everything, but I can see the pain she has suffered. She deserves happiness, always. And though she may not think it, she has made sacrifices for you, and will again. Make her happy. That is my only wish of you.”

He took this in, solemnly, and nodded. “Then we are agreed, my lady, as that is my greatest wish as well.”

With that, Sansa kissed him softly on the cheek, and left the room.

Arya finally exhaled.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It has been so long since I felt safe,” Sansa told her, late one afternoon, as they walked the walls of Winterfell, inspecting the rebuilding work. “I never knew what was going to happen next. It was better away from Joffrey’s clutches, and … and my marriage, but even in the Vale I felt as though I was walking on melting ice.”

Arya said nothing, three of her short strides being necessary to match one of Sansa’s long steps, graceful as they were.

“But I truly feel safe, now. It feels a little strange.”

Arya shrugged, blinking snowflakes out of her eyes. “You’re home,” she said simply.

“Yes,” Sansa agreed. “Winterfell will always be home. But I think it’s more than that.” She stopped abruptly, and it was a moment before Arya realised, and doubled back to face her. “You make me feel safe,” Sansa tells her. “I know how strong you are, how fierce, and how you want nothing more than to keep me safe, and Rickon. So many people have pledged to protect me, and some of them truly meant it, but I couldn’t trust any of them. But you … you want nothing in return. Except, perhaps, our love.”

Arya said nothing. Everything Sansa had said was the truth, and it felt good to know that she could devote herself to her family without copying Sansa’s feminine traits … her weakness, as Arya saw it, and she couldn’t help it. Sansa had skills Arya couldn’t match, but she still wouldn’t switch places, because she needed to feel strong. She could not, however, ignore Sansa’s confession.

“I’m glad you’re here, too,” she said, haltingly. “You insist on manners and courtesies that hardly seem important any more, and you’re much too keen to match everyone’s expectations of you, but … I’ve seen so much evil, selfishness, and destruction. You’re still good. You still love the good things in the world, and try to be that way yourself. I suppose … I suppose you give me hope.”

When she lifted her eyes to Sansa’s, she saw tears gathering in their blue depths, and rolled her own grey eyes impatiently in return. But Sansa only laughed, and took Arya’s hand in her own, as if she knew how high Arya’s praise truly was.

After a beat, Arya pulled her hand away. All morning she’d been trying to gather the courage to tell her sister something, something she wouldn’t want to hear. “Rickon seems happier.”

Sansa smiled. “Yes. He finally trusts me. He’s still only seven years old. I’m trying to be the mother who was taken from him.”

Something pulled inside Arya. She’d protected Rickon, sworn never to leave him alone, but she’d always fought against being his mother. Perhaps she felt the loss of a mother too keenly herself. Perhaps she didn’t remember enough about having a mother … but apparently Sansa did. It was _good_ , she told herself. It made everything easier.

“I was thinking … soon … I might leave for a while. Gendry and I, I mean.” There it was, out in the open.

Sansa looked stricken. “You’re leaving?” She looked unimaginably hurt, so soon after confession that Arya made her feel safe.

“Only for a while,” Arya hurried on. “And not because we don’t want to be here.” She swallowed hard. “I want to find Bran. He was alive when Rickon left him.”

Sansa was quiet for a long time. “Yes,” she said eventually. “He could be out there, somewhere. It sounds like he had good companions, good guides. You should try to find him.”

Seized with a sudden swell of emotion, Arya took one of Sansa’s long, pale, slender hands between her own scarred, grubby ones. “I’ll come back, I swear. I’ll always come back.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The bags that Arya packed for the journey northwards were mostly laden with food. Arya and Gendry were both used to a rough lifestyle, devoid of luxuries, and they both remembered all too well what it meant to be hungry. They knew something of finding food along the way, but winter was a difficult time, so the bags were laden with hard biscuits and salt pork, to sustain them as long as possible. Besides that, Arya carried Needle, three short knives, and a bow she was still learning how to use. 

Gendry carried a sword, a hammer, and a knife, as well as several blankets. They left in secret, wanting no fanfare. Only Sansa and Rickon were there to bid them farewell.  
Arya spent long moments engaged in an affectionate tussle with Rickon; he would have only Sansa’s genteel company in the coming weeks, and she didn’t envy her wild little brother. As they played, she tried to keep an eye and ear on her sister, and Gendry.

“I would beg you to take care of my sister, but I know all too well she can take care of herself.”

“Yes, my lady. She can take care of herself, and probably me as well.”

“If you find my brother …”

“Arya will decide what to do. This is her journey. I would rather stay in Winterfell, but I will not watch her go out into the wilderness alone.”

Gendry said all the right things, and made Arya proud, but the expression on Sansa’s face was strange, caught somewhere between envy and longing. Sansa fell quiet, and Rickon too lapsed into a stony silence.

“He wants to go with you,” Sansa said eventually. Arya shook her head.

“He can’t.”

“And he knows that, but he doesn’t like it.” Sansa placed a steadying hand on her little brother’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off. He moved suddenly, pulling a loaded pack down from Gendry’s back and opening it up. Arya started to protest, then stopped. He pulled off one of his deerskin gloves, tucked it inside the pack, and then scarpered away. The others watched in bemused silence.

“He doesn’t want you to forget him,” Sansa eventually attempted to explain.

“Or he wants you to promise to return, to bring it back,” Gendry suggested.

Arya said nothing. She had spent the most time with Rickon since his return to Winterfell, and he did so many things that were hard to explain, and was still reluctant to talk. Arya understood, to a degree: survival demanded difficult things of you, and many were hard to reconcile, especially back here, where sometimes the eyes of their mother and father seemed to be everywhere.

In the end, it was something of a relief to leave.

For once, they had two strong, well-trained mounts to see them northwards, and before long Winterfell was out of sight. Arya felt a pull in her heart as her childhood home disappeared, but it also felt like chains being broken. She was free once again, just a girl – a young woman – in rough-spun clothes, possessing no name or wealth, dependent only on her own skill … and with Gendry riding beside her.


	6. Unexpected Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wanted the North to be strong, but she didn’t want to lead it forever.

It was many days’ ride to the Wall, to the unmanned tower where they could pass though undetected. It was a wrench to leave Winterfell; she had always known it would be. If their road had led southwards, it might have been impossible. But the lands north of here were unknown, and that was so much better than the alternative.

At least she was coping physically; the cold crept inside her body, into her bones, but it didn’t trouble her. If anything, she found it invigorating. But Gendry was suffering; he had loved Winterfell. His southern upbringing drew him to the warm pools and hot pipes that flowed around the castle and, not least, to the blazing fires in the forge. But he never complained, even when they woke in the mornings to find their fires smothered under snowdrifts. At least here, miles away from anywhere, there was no-one to object when he pulled her closer, wrapping them both in the same blanket.

“Where are we?” he asked one evening, as they took advantage of a break in the constant snowstorm to light a fire.

“Deep in the Gift,” she said thoughtfully. “Brandon’s Gift, I think. He gave it to the Watch.” She stopped, and smiled. “And here we are, setting out to find another Brandon Stark. The true heir to the North.”

“There seems to be a new one every week,” Gendry commented, stirring the burning sticks.

“Bran is my oldest living brother. If he can be found, he takes that right from Rickon and Sansa.”

“And you.”

Arya shrugged.

“Tell me about him.”

She shrugged again. “He was just a boy when I last saw him. On the day I left, he was unconscious after his fall. I mean,” she amended herself, “after the Kingslayer threw him from that tower. He was a good boy, always looking up to Robb. And Jon, too, I suppose. He wanted to be a great knight. He was supposed to come with us, with Sansa and I, to King’s Landing. I heard he held Winterfell strongly, before Theon’s betrayal. The young lord of Winterfell. The Stark in Winterfell. He’s done it before; he could do it again.”

She knew there was desperation in her voice. She had done her best to rule her father’s castle alone, before Rickon’s return, and then to shape her baby brother to the role, but she was painfully unsuited to the task. Sansa’s return had given her hope, but her big sister had problems as well. None of them, she knew, were truly the leader the North needed. She knew Gendry disagreed – he had more faith in her than she deserved – but it often worried her. She wanted the North to be strong, but she didn’t want to lead it forever. If Rickon and Sansa couldn’t take that place, then Bran was her only hope.

“How are we supposed to find him?”

She truly didn’t know. The north was vast, and they had not passed any villages – any other people - since their departure. Her only hope had been that a crippled young boy traveling with a gigantic, simple-minded stableboy and two crannogmen would be unusual enough to attract attention, and she would be able to follow their reports. She knew from Jon that wildlings were settling in the Gift, but she had clearly misinterpreted the numbers. They had seen no-one.

“Feels a bit too familiar, doesn’t it?” Gendry said as the day grew darker. She knew what he meant; almost all the time they’d spent together had been like this, wandering through the wilderness, cold and hungry. But she felt better than she had back then, stronger and less afraid.

She pulled some dried meat from her pocket, tossed some across to him, and chewed at it thoughtfully. “Better to be running towards something, though, than running from it. I always hated running away.” It was true. The days when they ran from Harrenhal, constantly fearing pursuit, still gave her frequent nightmares.

There was a long silence, but it was pleasant, companionable. In the end, he broke the spell of quiet. “We’re still running, though. You couldn’t wait to get away.”

She lost her appetite, and tucked the meat back into her bag. She wanted to argue; home, _family_ , had been all she had wanted since Yoren had hacked off her hair and dragged her out of King’s Landing. But she had been too long away from that world and its constraints to find it comfortable, and there was a part of her that felt it belonged out here, in the wild.

But it was more than that. All of Winterfell had known of her relationship with Gendry. She wasn’t naïve. For now, no-one seemed to care, but she doubted that would continue, even with Sansa’s unexpected support. And Gendry refused to talk about how the rest of the household treated him when she wasn’t around, but she doubted it was always friendly.

So, yes, she had run, knowing it was only temporary, unless … unless …

Unless Bran could be found, and returned to his birthright.

“Yes,” she said eventually. “But we’ll have to go back. And if Bran isn’t with us, we’ll have to stay. But if Bran was Lord, with Rickon as his heir, and Sansa guiding them … maybe we won’t be needed any more.”

“What about the army?” His tone as he spoke was carefully level.

“As it grows, leaders will emerge. They won’t follow a woman forever.”

“You don’t truly believe that!”

“It’s not just that. I’m not a leader, not truly.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You really don’t know, do you? There isn’t a man in that castle who wouldn’t follow you to certain death. What better leader could you ask for?”

She swallowed, hard. “One that _wants_ to be there.”

He stopped his horse. “You don’t want to be there?”

She struggled with the words. “Winterfell will always be my home. But the Winterfell of my memories is lost forever. If my brothers and my sister had remained lost, I would’ve stayed out of duty; my father’s lessons were never meant for me, but I learned them nonetheless. But Winterfell is safe, but the girl I am now doesn’t belong there.”

He said nothing, letting her speak freely.

“I keep thinking about what you said, at Castle Black. We could go somewhere, across the Narrow Sea …”

His voice was so soft it was hard to hear. “You would do that. You would give up everything you fought for, for me.” It wasn’t really a question.

“I fought to take back my father’s seat, and a Stark sits in Winterfell again. I fought to destroy our enemies, and they are all dead, or lost. I fought for my name, and it’s _mine_.” It wasn’t really true; the Lannisters were in disarray, the Boltons were destroyed, and the Greyjoys decimated and driven from northern shores. But the world was still lousy with Freys; Arya hadn’t forgotten. But they were numerous, and the north would need to be stronger before taking them on. The thought had occurred to her that it wouldn’t be in her lifetime. It would be Rickon’s battle, or his son’s. Time had made her patient, and more realistic.

“You fought to get home.” It was true enough, she conceded.

She gave him a long, bittersweet look that said what she still could not. 

_You are my home._

~~~~~~~~~~

She found it difficult to sleep that night. Gendry drifted off almost instantly; he still found riding tiring. His large, immobile form was curled around her, and she didn’t want to disturb him, but she was restless. The night wore on, and for a while she hovered between sleep and waking. Once, she believed she heard the howl of a wolf.

 

The grey light of morning appeared. She thought she was dreaming; it was not as though she hadn’t had this dream before, many times. Thick, coarse fur tickled her face, a wet nose brushed her cheek, and a low, rumbling, _comforting_ growl echoed through her mind. _Nymeria._ This was always a wonderful dream. She wouldn’t have stirred, happy in her dream, were it not for Gendry’s terrified yelp.

When she pulled herself upright, he was backed up against the trunk of the tree they’d taken shelter beneath, eyes wide in terror, but frozen, unable to move. Arya couldn’t breathe; the wolf facing him was as big as a small horse, like a beast from a story, but she wasn’t trying to be threatening. Instead, her head was cocked slightly to the side, giving her an almost puzzled expression. It was difficult to believe that this was the creature that had terrorised the towns of the Riverlands.

 

“Nymeria!” Arya hurled herself at the wolf, arms around the broad body, face buried in smoky-smelling fur. She felt as though she were nine years old again, and lost herself in the joy of the reunion. She had grown since then, but Nymeria had grown more, and yet she still felt deeply … _familiar._

~~~~~~~~~~

She spent the day riding through the woods with Nymeria; Gendry seemed glad to let her go. The dreams she’d had in Braavos, of her wolf, still alive, strong and fearsome … it was all _real_. 

When they returned to the makeshift camp, it looked as though only some rapidly dwindling pride was preventing Gendry from climbing the nearest tree, but didn’t quite extend to covering his terror. Arya just about stopped herself from laughing.

“She won’t hurt you, you know.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“You’d only have to be wrong once,” he said, his eyes never leaving the wolf. Arya understood, but she’d never had much patience. She lifted her hand and gave Nymeria a gentle pat on the rump, and the giant wolf made her way forwards, to Gendry. The way he jumped made Arya relent, and she also walked forwards, taking his hand in her own, and lifting it to Nymeria’s nose. After the wolf sniffed it slowly, she guided it forwards, both of their hands together stroking Nymeria’s head. The she-wolf closed her eyes, and Arya felt Gendry relax, just a fraction. 

A moment later, Arya pulled their hands away, and Nymeria opened her eyes. In Arya’s mind, she recalled the feelings she had felt during her wolf dreams, the way the she-wolf had yearned for her brothers, and her lost sister. Her pack. It was something Arya could understand. Instinctively she reached up, her hand grasping the back of Gendry’s head, and pulled him down into a kiss, guiding his hands to her waist. It seemed simple: Nymeria would understand that he was part of their pack, wolf or not.

 _Wolf or stag_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispered. She pushed it away, distracted by the sight of Nymeria standing on her back legs, licking Gendry’s face like an overgrown puppy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Nymeria’s reappearance was wonderful. Her presence lifted Arya’s mood, her hunting trips brought them meals, and, once Gendry got used to her, made both of them feel safer, especially at night. The unexpected benefit came the next morning, when Gendry found the wolf pawing at one of their packs, eventually retrieving Rickon’s glove. He shook Arya gently, waking her.

“Look at that.”

She smiled sadly. “She can smell him.”

“Rickon?”

“Shaggydog. Her brother.”

Gendry thought for a moment. “Will she be able to help us find Bran? By scent?”

Arya looked offended. “She’s not a dog! Besides, all she can smell is Shaggy. Not … not Summer.” Bran’s wolf hadn’t even had a name the last time she or Nymeria had seen him.

“But those two were together for a long time.”

“Yes, and that was a long time ago.” But it appeared Gendry had the right of it: Nymeria let out a howl, and then raced off northwards, leaving Arya and Gendry to gather their things and frantically mount their horses, trying to catch up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the length of this one!


	7. The Last Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Painful reunions had become a part of Arya’s life.

Gendry groaned – almost whined – as he lay down to sleep that night; riding hard from sun-up to sun-down were taking a hard toll. They were four days’ ride north of the Wall, now; Arya would never forget passing through its icy darkness. Now, they were deep in forests. Gendry, raised in the city, was immediately uneasy, but even Arya had grown wary. Only Nymeria seemed at ease, though even she could never have known woods like these. It was misty here … was mist this thick normal here, where the trees were so dense?

Nymeria led the way, and Arya and Gendry followed on foot; the horses had refused to go a step further several days back. When the wolf stopped suddenly, Arya almost crashed into her haunches.

Another wolf. Light-colored, amber-eyed … _Summer_.

The two wolves nuzzled each other’s noses and bit each other’s ears. This went on a long time, and Gendry seemed alarmed by the roughness of their play; he had grown attached to Nymeria very quickly, and Arya had to stop him from trying to intervene. In the end, Summer dropped his chin to the ground, resting on his front paws, and Nymeria lifted her chin in apparent triumph. Arya started, surprised that the male would submit to the female, but could help feeling a slight thrill; competition with her nearest siblings, Bran and Sansa, had been a huge part of her childhood, and any victory was precious.

Her older self pushed the feeling away; her _brother_ was here, the brother who’d been on the edge of death when last she’d seen him, and had been believed lost for so many years. Her hand, still around Gendry’s arm from holding him back, squeezed hard. Together, they followed Summer and Nymeria deeper into the hollow.

When their eyes adjusted to the dim light, human figures became apparent. Arya let go of Gendry’s hand; if she had been paying attention, she would have seen that hand go to Nymeria’s fur at the scruff of her neck, holding her back.

Painful reunions had become a part of Arya’s life; she should’ve known what to do. Gendry, Rickon, Sansa … it didn’t get any easier. She took halting steps forward towards her brother … but something was wrong. Bran didn’t move towards her … of course, he couldn’t … but he merely gave her a small, sideways smile. He didn’t even look surprised to see her. It made Arya flush with frustration, and she ran towards him, throwing herself to the ground and gathering him in a fierce hug.

Thankfully, he returned it. Arya barely noticed his two companions make their way back up the hill, towards Gendry, and the two wolves, leaving brother and sister alone.

Arya released her brother. “You knew I was coming!”

“Yes. But that doesn’t make it any less sweet.”

Arya frowned. The brother she had known didn’t speak this way.

“Why do you think I’m here, Arya? Fleeing the Greyjoys, or the Boltons? Looking for Jon? I came here searching for answers, and I found them.”

All of this mystery only irritated Arya. She’d heard enough of other-worldly mysticism during her time with the Brotherhood, not to mention the House of Black and White. And there was something in Bran’s tone … all of the Stark children had grown up far too fast. Robb, King in the North at fourteen, dead at fifteen. Jon, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Sansa seemed a woman grown, and she … even she was far from being a child. But Bran seemed older than all of them, as though he’d been born older, as though he hadn’t been scolded half a hundred times for climbing, and wept with terror when Robb and Jon pretended there were ghosts in the crypts. It was made all the worse when he appeared to push his own problems aside.

“I cannot see everything, however. Tell me of home. Tell me of _you_.”

The story was a long time in the telling. King’s Landing to Harrenhall, Harrenhall to Saltpans, Saltpans to Braavos, and Braavos to the Wall. Winterfell, the return of Rickon and Sansa, and her own decision to journey northwards. “I’m here to take you home,” she finished.

“I am the rightful lord of Winterfell,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” she said, her tone beginning to show confusion. “It’s safe now. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Is it what _you_ want, big sister?”

She searched for words, unable to answer, and he laughed, and took her hand.

“I’m glad it was you who found me. I would dearly love to see Jon and Sansa and Rickon again, but I’m glad I met you first. I saw you sometimes, on your journeys.”

“How?”

“You were always connected to Nymeria. And, through Summer, so was I. You’ve been so far away, further than Rickon in Skagos, and Jon, beyond the Wall. Your journey back has been the longest, and the hardest. You should understand why I cannot go back.”

Anger flared. “Why can’t you? It all belongs to you! What would …” she choked suddenly. “What would Father say?”

“If Father could truly see us now, he would know that control of the North is not my fate. Rickon is next in line, then Sansa. It is not my place … nor yours, my sister.”

Her patience ran out. “Since last we met, I have learned some Myrish and Valyrian, and to speak Braavosi like a native, yet it seems we Stark children – Jon, Rickon, Sansa, you and I – barely speak the same version of the common tongue. Explain yourself, and plainly!”

“I will tell you, if you have the patience to listen.”

She gave up, and flung herself down on the ground beside him. “Go on.”

His tale took almost as long to tell as hers: the appearance in his dreams of the three-eyed crow, of the Walders, of Jojen and Meera’s arrival in Winterfell, of Theon’s betrayal, and their subsequent flight, aided by Osha and Hodor. He told her other things, too, things she suspected he had never spoken of, of taking control of Hodor’s body, and the destiny he had come to find beneath the trees, and she began to understand why he was glad it was she, not Jon or Sansa, who had found him.  
She listened with more patience than he had expected, but in truth she was watching for the details hidden within his words, as the Faceless Men had taught her. The fate of the Starks was tied to the fate of the North, and the North did not stop at the Wall. 

Eddard Stark had five children, and his middle son’s place was here. He had gifts; strong, powerful gifts. Gifts his sister shared, but nowhere near as potent. He could see what was happening throughout the realm and sometimes, just sometimes, he could change it.

“So you won’t come back with me?” It was the only answer she truly needed.

“I might return to Winterfell one day,” he conceded. “For a while. But it is not my home any more. Do you understand?”

She grimaced. “Better than you might think.”

He gave her a long look. “You should meet my friends. Jojen and Meera, of House Reed, perhaps the strongest allies we have ever known.” He gave her a grin, and for a moment almost seemed like her little brother again. “They have some stories you might be interested in hearing.”

~~~~~~~~~~

That evening felt almost like a feast. The wolves didn’t let them down, returning with rabbits aplenty, and this was supplemented by Meera’s catch of plump silver fish. It was better than anything Arya or Gendry had known since leaving Winterfell.

Arya liked Meera Reed instantly. She was entirely unpretentious, comfortable with hardship and with weapons. Jojen was different; even able-bodied, he seemed weaker and more vulnerable than Bran, though she understood his sister’s desire to protect him. But there was something distinctly _northern_ about both of them, and Arya felt that she was among friends.

After some prompting from Bran, Meera was cajoled into telling the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree again. Arya couldn’t believe her father had never shared this story; he must have understood how much she would have enjoyed it. It was obvious to her that her aunt, the famous Lyanna Stark, played the starring role in the tale. Eventually she noted that whenever Lyanna was mentioned, Gendry was watching her carefully.

Long after the meat of the meal was finished, Bran reached around the side of the fire, holding out a pouch of berries to Gendry, who took them politely. “My thanks, m’lord.”

Arya choked a laugh, and Bran looked at her inscrutably. She was getting tired of that.

“You’ve heard our tale. What of yours?”

“Born and orphaned in King’s Landing,” Gendry shrugged. “Sold to the Night’s Watch, and the crow in charge was delivering your sister north. Captive in Harrenhal, joined the Brotherhood Without Banners for a time, then escorted Lady Stark back to her half-brother at the Wall. She was good enough to reward me with a place at Winterfell.”

“Do you intend to stay there?”

He lifted his head, apparently refused to be intimidated by the young lord, and answered clearly. “If Lady Arya stays, I will stay. We have come through too much together to be parted now.”

Arya shifted uncomfortably, but part of her felt proud. Not for the first time, she wished her family had been just an ordinary family, farmers or merchants. And then this feeling between the two of them would be something to celebrate, to enjoy … instead of hiding it, apologizing for it.

As the evening wore on, the others retired, Jojen and Meera disappearing into the shadows with Hodor, Gendry being followed away by Nymeria, who would no doubt keep him warm on the bleak winter night. 

Bran watched Gendry walk away until he was out of earshot, then grinned that childish grin again.

“And what does Sansa make of all this?”

“All what?” Arya asked irritably.

“You know,” he went on, unperturbed. “I’m not a child, either, big sister. Do you think I can’t see what exists between the two of you?”

She considered denying it; Bran was still her baby brother. But out here in the wilderness, it seemed pointless. “Sansa accepts it, probably because she has no choice. She likes having me back, and Gendry has given her no reason not to trust him.”

Silence lingered for a while; Arya mused on how everyone seemed so surprised to see her accompanied. In the imaginations of her closest family, she was alone until proven otherwise.

“I can’t explain it,” she said eventually. “I don’t know whether our bond was forged in the horrors of the war, or whether it goes deeper than that. But I can imagine nothing worse than being separated from him. He’s a part of me, now, and if I lose him everything else has been in vain.”

Bran considered that for a long time, and tears stung Arya’s eyes. She told herself it was embarrassment at the sudden show of emotion.

“I see things,” Bran said, “through the trees. Things that are happening right now, and things that have gone before. A while back – ten days at most – I saw something, an old memory, from Winterfell. It took place in the weirwood at Winterfell; Father was cleaning Ice, and Mother came to find him. I know it happened, even if it was long ago.”

Arya listened intently, fighting tears. She had no reason to disbelieve her brother, and she envied him greatly for being able to see their parents.

“Mother wanted to tell him about the direwolf pups. I was there when we found them. Father didn’t want to let Robb and Jon bring them home, but Jon convinced him. We didn’t find Ghost until afterwards, but the other five were for us, the true-born children of Eddard Stark. Robb chose his, and I mine, and the last male was marked for Rickon, and by the time we arrived back in Winterfell we knew which would be Sansa’s, and which would be yours. Mother came to tell Father about the pups. I can still remember her words,” he trailed off.

Arya couldn’t stand it. “Go on,” she prompted, impatiently.

“Sansa is charmed and gracious, and Arya is already in love,” he stopped. “Those were Mother’s words.”

Arya squeezed her eyes shut, seeing her nine-year-old self through her mother’s eyes.

“It’s true, you know,” Bran went on. “Sansa was always free with her courtesies, but not her true feelings. She was always affectionate, seeing beauty everywhere, not least in the gentle direwolf pup Robb gave her, but when it struck you, Arya, it struck hard. Sansa was entranced with Joffrey, one day long ago, but also Loras Tyrell. And Harrold Hardyng, that boy in the Vale, and even the idea of Willas Tyrell, future Lord of Highgarden.”

These words drove home the power of Bran’s gift; she had told him almost none of this.

“Whereas you, Arya Stark, you fell but once, but you fell hard, and there was no going back.”

Feeling her hackles rise, Arya fell silent. Bran seemed so old now, so wise and so sensible. She fully expected him to tell her she couldn’t have this one good thing in her life, that she would need to give up Gendry for the good of the family, House Stark, and for the North. Later, she would realise she had underestimated her little brother; he was above such things now, beyond the reach of the forces that moved the other Stark children.

“We are not what we were, Arya. By rights, I should return to Winterfell, take up the lordship, and restore the North. I should make a good marriage and, if I can, provide heirs to take up the cause. I won’t do that; that is Rickon’s task now.”

Her heart was in her mouth. She had travelled northwards to find and protect her crippled little brother, but the truth was he was at least her equal. He might have been more, but he didn’t seem to want that. She realized, suddenly, that she had lacked for guidance and wisdom, that Jon and Sansa could provide her with nothing she couldn’t offer herself. But Bran … Bran seemed to have some answers, and some faith in them.

“You have been to places and see things, done things, that can’t be taken back. Mother and Father, and perhaps Robb, too, would have found you a great lord, with a fair castle and vast lands, and a handsome title for your son to inherit. You found yourself a blacksmith, bastard-born … but he’s brave and loyal, and he loves you. Who’s to say, in this new and strange world, which is worth more?”

Largely struck dumb, a small part of Arya’s mind wondered … if Bran was the true lord, did this count as his blessing?

“If Winterfell cannot hold you,” Bran went on, “there is another option. Jon must have told you that wildlings were resettling the Gift?”

Arya nodded vaguely; there had been more pressing problems at the time.

“I believe you could be happy there, the two of you. Titles mean nothing, courtesies either. You would not have to leave the North.”

Arya considered this. Could she and Gendry settle in the Gift, where wildling customs meant they were both of equal footing, and her skills with a sword and his skills with a hammer could give them a comfortable existence?

Then, just as the idea began to settle, she was wrong-footed again.

“You know who he is, don’t you?” Bran’s eyes drifted towards Gendry, yards away, mending their boots with Meera.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I know.”

Her gave her a strange look. “Does _he_ know?”

“No. How would he?”

“It might be better that way.” Bran said carefully, drawing their discussion to an end, but Arya considered the matter all day long. She had come so close to losing herself. The truth of her identity was still the most precious thing she possessed. It wasn’t fair to deny that to Gendry, however terrifying the truth might be.

That evening they went walking, following the path of the stream.

“Do you remember Lord Seaworth?” Arya said, trying to keep her tone light.

“Yes,” Gendry grunted, apparently already uncomfortable.

“He was interested in you.”

“Yes.”

“I overheard something, something about making your bull’s horns into antlers.”

Gendry stopped in his tracks. “Just leave it, Arya.” He hardly ever used her true name.

“You know,” she said sharply, trying to keep to accusatory tone out of her voice.

“Yes. I’ve known for a while.”

“And?”

“And what? So a dead usurper of a king fucked my mother? What should I do? You know as well as I do that I have no rights, no matter who he was. I have nothing to gain,” he stopped, and took her small hands inside his large ones, “and _everything_ to lose.”

She swallowed hard. “But … you are the son of a _king_!”

Their eyes met, ice grey and sky blue. When they first met, they were both orphan boys. She had been revealed as a northern lady, even a princess, and suddenly he was someone too, a king’s bastard.

“No, I’m the bastard get of a king!”

“A king with no true heirs!”

He stopped, refusing to be drawn into an argument. “Arya, think. I have no proof, and he never acknowledged me. I have no power, no claim, and _no idea_ what to do. Every day I thank the gods I remained unknown. Can’t you understand that?”

She did. Of course she did. Seized with sudden tenderness, she wrapped her arms around his waist. 

He went on. “I wondered, before, if it would make things easier for us. If I had a place in the capital or at Storm’s End, could we be together? But it would only make things worse. I can’t think of a worse torture than being dragged back into that war.”

She held him tighter, and felt his warm breath in her hair. “I understand,” she told him softly. “And you’re right.” And she began to share Bran’s idea with him. It seemed the obvious solution.

Despite the cold, she moved her hands over him with intent; they hadn't been together since leaving Winterfell. After, lying against him, her thoughts began to unfold.

“You’re a Baratheon.”

“No. Not really.”

“A little. You might be Robert Baratheon’s only living son.”

He said nothing.

“My father often compared me to my aunt Lyanna.”

Silence.

“Don’t you remember Meera’s story? Robert Baratheon was in love with Lyanna. Our houses were meant to be joined.”

“It didn’t work,” he argued, taking the harshness from his argument by stroking his fingers gently across the small of her back, making her squirm, pressing herself against him.

“Perhaps it was just too soon. King Robert and my father tried to amend that loss, joining Sansa and Joffrey. But Joffrey was all Lannister. Perhaps we are the first of our houses to truly love each other.”

She fell asleep.


	8. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who says these new songs can't have happy endings?

Arya and Gendry’s return to Winterfell was fleeting; Bran’s idea about settling in the ‘free’ North, in the Gift, had already taken root. Bran’s survival was kept hidden, though Arya confessed the truth to Sansa in secret, to be shared with Rickon in due time. With Bran believed dead, Rickon was positioned to be King in the North, with Sansa as his Regent. 

House Stark was stronger than it had been since Lord Eddard lived. Arya and Gendry were free to leave.

~~~~~~~~

She left a note for Gendry: _Meet me in the Godswood._

When he arrived, it wasn’t just Arya he found. Sansa and Rickon were already there, as well as the new maester. Even though Arya was standing before the heart tree, and Sansa’s eyes were filled with tears, it took Gendry a while to understand what was happening.

They left the godswood as man and wife. It was Arya’s sixteenth name day.

~~~~~~~~~~

Their settlement in the Gift, in the new village of Northtree, took some time. The wildlings were initially suspicious.

“Want us to kneel to you, Stark?”

“Please, don’t.”

The first time a wildling warrior tried to steal her, the problem was solved. She left him unable to walk for a month. From that moment on, they were part of the town.

They built the house together, but it took longer to establish a forge, and Gendry spent much more time making kettles, pans and horseshoes than forging swords and helms. He didn’t seem to mind.

Arya found a place teaching swordplay to the village children, and was delighted to find herself instructing girls as well as boys.

Occasional ravens arrive from Winterfell.

“Sansa refused more offers for her hand.”

“You sound surprised.”

“You would, too, if you had grown up with her.”

“Any husband she took would control the North, through Rickon.”

“I know. And she won’t allow that.”

Arya turned the paper over. “Betrothals are also coming in for Rickon.”

“I’m sure your sister will choose wisely.”

Arya suddenly hooted with laughter. “I pity the poor girl who has to match Sansa’s standards!”

Gendry was soon chuckling, too, reaching out towards Arya.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa always intended to visit, but her obligations meant it was almost three years before she could make the journey northwards. The entire village turned out to greet her, though it was more out of curiosity than reverence.

Her wheelhouse stopped outside Arya and Gendry’s house. He held their infant daughter in his arms, while their small son clung to Arya’s legs, grey eyes wide and wary. 

When Sansa emerged from the carriage, she was the most beautiful, most splendid thing any of the villagers had ever seen. She embraced Arya for a long time, and let Gendry kiss her hand. The boy clinging to Arya’s legs lifted his chin defiantly, but the blue eyed girl in Gendry’s arms giggled delightedly. Unable to resist, Sansa swept her little niece into her arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gendry took the children away for a while, leaving Arya alone with her sister. Sansa was finally able to note her little sister’s swelling middle.

“You haven’t been idle,” Sansa commented, sipping spring ale from a rough wooden chalice.

Arya looked away, muttering to herself. “No maesters here, you know, this isn’t Winterfell. No moon tea on demand.”

“I heard something about woods witches,” Sansa needled, prompting more bluster from Arya, and Sansa smiled; it was clear that Arya loved her children deeply.

“Tell me about them.”

“Our daughter is Lyanna, Lya for short. She was born as spring started to arrive. She looks like Gendry, all black hair and blue eyes,” she went on, “the Baratheon look.” She didn’t doubt that Sansa knew.

“Jon’s a year older, and he has the Stark look,” Arya continued. “Though I think it’s Lya who has the wolf blood. I tried to send a raven, both times, but it isn’t easy.”

Sansa took her hand. “I understand. And they’re beautiful children. The first grandchildren of Eddard and Catelyn Stark. They would be so proud.”

Arya nodded. “We thought about naming Jon Eddard,” she said, her voice breaking, “but I thought we should save that for Rickon’s children, or yours. True, legitimate Stark children.”

Sansa paused. “What name do your children bear?”

Arya shook her head. “None, really. Gendry’s name is Waters, as a bastard of the Crownlands, but he never liked it, and we’re far from King’s Landing. They could be Snow, but they’re not bastard-born; we were married before a heart tree. But I’m their mother, so they’re not really Starks. We think as long as they stay here in Northtree, it doesn’t matter what they call themselves.”

Sansa nodded. “When is your baby due?”

“Three months, or near enough.”

Sansa smirked. “You know, three babies in as many years is a lot. There are other ways to avoid conception.”

“Not an option,” Arya said flatly, stroking her middle. She didn’t have Sansa’s idealised vision of motherhood, but she was fiercely protective of her children.

Sansa looked wistful. “How did it feel, becoming a mother?”

Arya took a deep breath. “When Jon was born, I finally understood how Mother must have felt, and our grandmother, and all those who went before. How they were able to give up their names, even their identities, for this one who would follow. But here … Jon is no more important than Lya, and as I see them grow, I see her as the stronger one. She’ll be a great leader; I’ll teach her. The gods help the man who tries to steal her.”

Sansa shook her head. “Arya, how can you live like this? Your children could be part of the line of succession, kings and queens of winter in their own right. Why not come home, to Winterfell?”

“Sansa ….”

“I mean it, Arya. You are beloved throughout the North. You are already married; you gave vows before a heart tree, and the Old Gods. Gendry saved your life; we all know he is your husband. You cannot be given to … to an unfeeling stranger. Why not come home?”

Arya sighed. “That is all true, but what of my daughter? What of my Lyanna? Ten years will pass, and she will be another pawn, promised away, and told to be grateful for it.” She leaned forward and kissed Sansa on the cheek. “No, dear sister, we’re better off where we are.”

And, tucking her knife into her belt, she walked out into the wilding village, looking for her blacksmith husband, and her fierce, wild children.

For once, she was right where she was meant to be, she was finally sure. 

Arya was home.


End file.
